The Ghost in the Machine
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: A few weeks after ‘Nemesis’, Picard has an unexpected meeting, faces his emotions, and deals with some hard questions. Spoilers for ‘Nemesis’. Please review!


**The Ghost in the Machine**

**Summary: **A few weeks after 'Nemesis', Picard has an unexpected meeting, faces his emotions, and deals with some hard questions. Spoilers for 'Nemesis'. Please review!

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the Star Trek franchises, which all seem to belong to a complex combination of CBS, Viacom and Paramount. Neither do I own either Commander Data or Brent Spiner – if I did, you think I'd be wasting my time typing???

**A/N:** Please read my 'Threshold' stuff too - we have to keep the spirit alive!

* * *

It was the second night watch: the ship's lights were dim, imitating a diurnal rhthym for those species that needed it. In the unwonted gloom, Captain Jean-Luc Picard stumbled into ten-forward, disorientated and slightly dishevelled and, as he'd hoped, finding no-one there but Guinan. One glance from the bartender was all it took for her to materialise at his side, take his arm, and guide him to a shielded niche. A drink appeared, and she sat down.

"You found it, then."

Picard stared stupidly at her. "You knew?" he whispered.

"I knew. And I disapproved."

"You knew." This time the tone was one of incredulity and accusation.

Guinan took his hands in her own, and held them tight.

* * *

Picard sat on the deep, mossy bank that was his favourite hidden place within Data's holodeck forest. In the coolness, the soft sun dappled through gently moving leaves, sprinkling the ground with light and shadow, while a small brook tumbled over scattered stones below, chattering to itself as it bubbled through the landscape. The curved rocks at Picard's back formed a type of natural chair, holding him in the palm of a cool, stone hand: it was a seat designed for two, and he and Data had enjoyed the beautiful scene in silence together more often than he could remember. Now, he sat alone, his friend just a treasured, painful memory.

The forest was a masterpiece of Data's imagination: he and Picard had walked for miles as it unfolded before them, furling up behind them as they went, always bending to their needs and always offering astonishing and wonderful surprises. It reflected its creator, Picard thought wryly: there were those who considered that an android lacked the necessary depth and colour to create a living world, but they were wrong. This was one of the richest places he had ever seen.

He spent a lot of time here now – perhaps even more than when Data had been alive – drinking in the peace and invoking the comfort of memory. Sometimes he brought a book, sometimes he came alone, but always he left spiritually strengthened. It had become a very precious place to him.

Today, he had found a new path, and he idly wondered if the program didn't have a mind of its own. New dells and copses seemed to appear where before he could have sworn there was a thicket or an open glade, as if responding to some unspoken need. His favourite places never changed, but the unfamiliar areas were always fresh and challenging, and he explored them eagerly. It was as if the forest had been designed for him.

He stopped in his musings, struck by this new idea. What if it had? He had never asked Data why he had created this place but, now that he thought about it, whenever he had expressed pleasure in some aspect of their surroundings, it was sure to reappear, at least until he found something new to enjoy. Had Data been creating the forest, day by day, just for him? Had he deliberately modified it as the years had gone by, not for his own pleasure and gratification, but for Picard's? And was such a program still running – still interactive and responding to him, even though its creator was no longer here?

Already tired from a double shift – he worked longer hours than he used to, as well – he found the sudden thought of Data's care for his wellbeing too much to bear. That such a good, loving and loved man should be gone, shattered irretrievably into the cold cruelty of space... He put his head down onto his arms and began to cry, softly at first but then, safe in the knowledge that he was alone, loudly and clumsily. He was not a man accustomed to tears, and he had never acquired the art of weeping with decorum. It was the first time he had found such relief since Data had died, and all the passion of loss and impotence flooded out of him uncontrolled. Ungainly in his wracking grief, he cried out the name of the friend he had lost in a broken howl.

"Data – Data, where are you?" His empty heart knew there would be no reply.

Without warning, he felt a sudden hand on his shoulder, and froze. He was alone, and he had secured the exit before losing himself amongst the trees. Who – what – was in here with him?

Then a distinctive, calm voice filled his ears. "I am here, sir."

* * *

"He planned this?" Picard's voice held disbelief and awe. "How could he? Did he – my God, Guinan, did he know?" The thought appalled him.

"Data was a wise soul, Picard," the black woman replied. "But no – I don't think so. He was just covering the angles."

"And you knew what he'd done?"

"I told you – I didn't approve."

"He was there! I could see him – touch him – he was solid flesh! I held him, spoke to him – he's in there, Guinan, all of him. Unchanged – undamaged. He's not dead at all..." His eyes glittered as he spoke.

Guinan shook her head. "You know that's not true, Picard. He's a holodeck image, nothing more."

"He's there – he's real!"

"He's not real. You want him to be real, and he knew if ever you were left without him, you would want to call him back again. It's so with anyone who dies, Picard – would you recreate them all?"

"But this is Data. He's there, in the computer. It's not like a human being, Guinan – all of him is there! We can make him live again."

"Playing Supreme Being? You think that's what Data would have wanted?"

Picard looked at her hollowly, his eyes shadowed with weeks of too little sleep and too much longing.

* * *

"Data?" Picard mouthed the word, but no sound came. Slowly, he looked round, and registered the pale hand by his right ear. He felt himself begin to shake.

The hand moved and, before Picard could react, drew him to his feet. Hardly daring to breathe with – what? Fear – hope? Picard slowly raised his eyes up black-trousered legs and torso, a mustard-yellow shirt beneath, a pale cream throat, green-gold eyes...

"Data?" he whispered, bewildered and overwhelmed and too confused even for joy. "Data?"

"It is I, Captain. Am I to understand – " the android paused delicately " – that I am dead, sir?"

Picard, never taking his eyes from his friend, nodded dumbly. He felt tears start into his eyes afresh. He couldn't help it – this was too new for him to remain calm.

Data's head tilted to one side in his characteristic pose when thinking. "I do not remember. My memories are intact up to stardate 56852.1, but beyond that I must rely on the ship's logs. Ah! I have found the entries. They – " he looked slightly startled " – they are extensive, sir. And – somewhat emotional. I am sorry to have caused such distress, but I perceive that it was necessary."

Picard shook his head, still not trusting himself to speak: his heart was too full. Instead, he loosed his hand from Data's gentle grip and, hardly knowing what he was doing, pulled the other to him, wrapping him in his arms as if he would never let him go. Data was solid, warm to the touch, and vibrated slightly as the machinery beneath his skin did its work, making of diodes and wires a living, thinking being. He felt the android respond in kind, and for a long time there were no words.

Later, sitting together on that favourite seat, Picard finally found his voice. "How are you here? Why are you here? Are you – can you really come back?"

Data shook his head. "No, sir, I cannot. I am dead, and unless you have been able to collect appropriate debris from the explosion, which I assume you have not, you will not be able to reconstruct me. This program, however, contains all of what might be termed my consciousness, as well as my memories. I am largely preserved within it: I have no viable offspring, and my presence here means that you need not be alone. It is, for all practical purposes, me, in a way that the information I downloaded into B-4 is not."

"Could we download _this_ program into B-4?"

Data shook his head. "He does not presently possess the requisite neural pathways, Captain. Though – " he paused " – your log indicates that he has successfully processed some of the information I gave to him. You have been spending much time with him."

"Jealous, Data?" Picard smiled.

Data's expression was unreadable. "No, sir. Just curious. Did you find yourself comparing B-4 and myself in any way?"

"Every day you grow more human," Picard murmured, but then he became serious again. "He is so like you, Data – his face, his mannerisms, his voice – but his mind is unformed, like that of a child. He doesn't have your inquisitiveness, your insatiable curiosity. Could he develop them? He often seems intrigued by some memory of yours, but after thinking about it for a while he just abandons it." Picard sighed. "He isn't you."

"B-4 is only a prototype, sir. I was not aware any of them had survived, but there may be others to be found."

"Others? How many 'prototypes' did Dr Soong make?"

"Nine in all. Each was a refinement on the last. I originally thought he had destroyed them: he felt that their lives were too limited for comprehensive experience, so he determined that they should not be allowed to live."

Picard turned to look at his friend. "That's tantamount to murder!"

"I suppose he viewed them merely as machines," Data replied blandly.

"Merely as machines," muttered Picard. "We're all merely machines. But B-4 does have some of your qualities, Data. And he has your memories, too…"

"Maybe you can nurture him, Captain – teach him to aspire in a way that at present he does not. Maybe you can find in him someone who possesses both my qualities and those particular to himself. Human children mature and grow. With help from you and Geordi, why should not he?" A trace of emotion crept into his carefully-modulated voice. "He is my brother."

"No-one could replace you. A friend is unique, not just a collection of memories or a set of physical attributes. A friend is – a jointly-constructed history, a way of reacting, a shared library of recollections and thoughts. He's a mirror, a gauge, someone who makes you more than yourself. In here." He tapped himself on the chest. "That's where you are, Data. In here."

Data appeared to consider Picard's words. "Then perhaps I am not as lost to you as you previously thought," he said seriously. "Perhaps I will always live inside you, whether I am truly 'alive' or not."

* * *

"So long lives this, and this gives life to thee," Picard quoted. "He virtually said it! And so much more – I flatter myself that he's spoken to me over the years more than to anyone, but he seems somehow freer now. We talked for hours."

"Hours?" Guinan sounded sceptical.

Picard smiled – with his eyes as well as his mouth. His face radiated excitement. "I don't know – it seemed like a day, but it might have been five minutes. I don't care, Guinan! He's there – just as he always was. I can go and see him any time I want, spend as much time with him as I want: it's really Data! It's really him!" His voice dropped, as though sharing a secret conspiracy. "He's still here!"

Guinan shook her head. "You know he's not, Picard. You're not going to heal if you don't accept that."

"But I don't need to. I won't see him every day – well, perhaps just at first, but not every day. But I'll know he's there, waiting, whenever I need… And he did it for me, Guinan! To make sure I wouldn't ever be without him."

"Hmm. I don't approve. You need to let people go – yes, you remember them with pleasure, love, sadness – but you let them go. You know that."

"What are you suggesting? That I don't go back there again? That I never see him again?"

"That's what happens with dead people," Guinan said flatly. "Data's no different. You've had a few unexpected extra hours, and you'll value them – now you need to walk away."

"Never!" Picard's eyes were like fire.

"You know it, Picard."

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, Picard thought: peace filled him like the scent of vanilla on a balmy afternoon. As he opened his eyes, he became aware of music, thin and strange, drifting from a nearby tree: looking up, he saw Data perched on a low branch, whistling. He watched him for a few moments, then stood up and stretched. "You've improved."

"Indeed." The android jumped effortlessly down onto the rough green grass. "I find that many things have been changed by my death. I am beginning to become more tempted by the lure of verbal contractions."

_Only Data could get away with a sentence like that_, Picard thought. "I know," he said. "I've heard one or two from you recently. Be a devil; try another one."

"I will try two. 'I'm pleased you're here'," Data replied slowly. The words behaved as if they didn't belong to him. "It sounds wrong, sir."

"Hmm. It does need some work," smiled Picard. He looked at his friend, standing easily in the small, unreal clearing, bathed in light from a holographic sun. There was so much he wanted to say – so much unreleased emotion he wanted to share – and here they were, trading banter about Data's speech patterns. Avoiding the subject that hung between them like a lead curtain, constraining conversation and tainting memory.

Picard swallowed. It had to be faced. "Why?" he said, his voice expressionless. "Why, Data?"

Data looked at him quizzically, but his eyes told Picard that he understood the question. "Sir?"

"You know what I mean," Picard said tersely.

Data looked down. "I am uncertain, Captain," he said softly. "Are you referring to the destruction of the Scimitar, your transport back to the Enterprise, or my death? Or – something else?"

"All of it. Why you? Why did it have to be you?"

Data raised his eyebrows. "The transporter was not operational, Captain. No-one else could have travelled between the two ships. I need neither air nor atmosphere to survive. Anyone else would have died before they reached you."

"That's it, isn't it? You came to rescue me – if I hadn't gone, you would never have had to risk it. Without me, you – "

"Without you, sir, I would have had to incapacitate Shinzon as well as well the weapon, and I think it possible that even I would have been incapable of achieving both tasks. We each played a vital part, and without yours everyone would have been destroyed. The transporter failure was just – 'bad luck'."

Picard paused: he had not thought about it like that before. Intellectually, he acknowledged the common sense of what Data was saying: emotionally, he completely rejected it. "But there should have been another way!"

"There was not, sir, not that Geordi and I could devise in a few seconds."

"But why did you have to send me back? I could have stayed with you."

"What purpose would that have served, sir? What would your death have accomplished?"

"It would have made me feel better, dammit!"

"That is not a valid argument, Captain. If you were dead, you could not feel anything."

"Then I wouldn't be feeling this grief!" Picard's desperation cracked his voice in pieces. "Anything would be better than – this…"

Data crossed the distance between them and laid a hand on Picard's arm. "I do not remember, but I know what happened, and I know why I acted as I did. So, I think, do you. You would have acted no differently. When you had the opportunity to beam back from the Scimitar without me, you refused to take it, preferring instead to try and ensure my safety. I believe, sir," he continued, falling into a lecturing stance, "that you are very much a case of the pot calling the kettle black."

If Data had thought his attempt at humour would divert Picard's train of thought, he was disappointed. "You could have waited. You could have destroyed the weapon and then beamed back with me. You could have found a way!"

"There was no time. Captain, I am sorry to have caused you such pain, but I do not believe there was another way. I – am sure I did not want to die, sir, but sending you back ensured that only I did. There must have been a degree of comfort in that knowledge."

A sob burst through Picard's rigid self-control. He had to accept the truth of Data's words: he would have acted identically, had their positions been reversed. "The needs of the many…" he murmured.

"Sir?"

"A quotation from history, Data. 'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.' But they cheated, and won: you didn't, and we lost. There must have been something I could have done!"

"You were injured, sir, and in deep shock: you had just effectively been a witness to your own death. Shinzon was a formidable opponent, and not limited in his actions by any consideration for others. It is possible that only someone such as myself – or another such as Shinzon – could have successfully opposed him. You have nothing to reproach yourself with."

"No?" Picard said bitterly. "Except that you're dead and I'm not. Except that if I'd reacted faster, I could have stopped you, sent you back, destroyed the ship myself. Except that I froze when action was most needed."

"I must repeat, that you could not have accomplished the necessary actions in the available time: you cannot move as fast as I can." There was an edge to Data's voice: Picard could have sworn that his patience was wearing thin. "That is not boasting, sir – it is stating a simple fact. The only way to save the Enterprise necessitated my death. There was no reason for you to share that demise. In my last few seconds, sir, as I said, I am sure the knowledge that you were safe gave me comfort."

Picard, who had been staring at the ground, raised his eyes to meet Data's. "If I knew," he whispered. "If I knew nothing else could have been done…"

Data shook his head slowly, holding his Captain's gaze. "Nothing. Believe me, sir – nothing."

"That still won't bring you back!"

"Again, sir, the fact that you remember me means I shall never truly leave. It is just a change in circumstance, Jean-Luc, not a change in fact."

Picard stared. Had Data just called him 'Jean-Luc'? He replayed the sentence in his head: he evidently had. The implications were too large for him to comprehend right now. "I'm so tired," he said, suddenly weary to the very bone and soul.

"You should rest, then, sir," Data replied.

Sighing, Picard took Data's pale, smooth hand from his arm and sandwiched it between his own. It was warm, solid and comforting, with an answering pressure, responding to his deep, heartfelt affection. Where would he find another such friend? He needed to think: needed to contemplate everything that had been said. After the passion of their words, he felt strangely empty, almost devoid of emotion, and a part of him was glad of the stolen peace.

He nodded slowly. "Yes," he replied. I will." He met the pale, serious eyes again. "Thank you, Data." His gratitude was not merely for their present conversation.

As he walked towards the exit, he felt the forest roll itself up behind him. By the time he reached the exit and looked back, the clearing in which he and Data had been standing was invisible behind other trees.

* * *

"You look better, Picard," Guinan said a few days later as she served the Captain a drink; this time, ten-forward was busy and full. "No more bad dreams?" Picard smiled but did not reply. Guinan tried again. "You'll always miss him. But that doesn't mean life has to stop being fun. You're the person you are partly because of him – living well is your tribute to what he was."

"It's all right, Guinan. Data and I have got it all sorted out now."

"Data and you."

"When we talked on the holodeck, I can't tell you how much that helped. You were right, of course, though the temptation to go back there is – well, it's sometimes almost too much to bear."

"It is?"

"The important thing is, I know he's there. I remember a poem about a woman whose son had – died, I suppose – but his silhouette had been traced on her cottage wall. One day someone came and painted the wall, so she couldn't see it any more – but she knew it was still there. It hadn't been removed, only obscured. Data hasn't gone, he's just – unseen."

"Do you still – talk to him?"

"No, not so much. I think we've said pretty much all there was to say. But you're right – I still miss him. That, I will always do." He tossed the drink back and nodded to her before striding from the room, a new purpose in his step.

"What was that all about?" asked Geordi, who had been listening to the conversation unobserved.

"I'm not sure," Guinan said slowly. "But I think it was good." She looked around the room, taking in the companionship, the laughter, the unselfconscious pleasure of friends.

She was grateful that, if there were indeed unseen guests at any of the tables, she was not aware of them.

* * *


End file.
